Ye noise-making, sash-breaking, Lacqueys of FacYe insane Disturbers, who're bit by Distractions, Think what you're about, when the loudest you bawl, Not a man that you're mad for but laughs at ye all.

Who Patriots were once now are Patriots no more,
And what has been, certainly may be, encore ;
Nay, have not some Bustlers confess'd their intentions,
They open'd their mouths until Mum popp'd in


To be wise is the word; how that word comes about
Is,-the wise are those in, and the otherwise out;
So small's the distinction betwixt one another,
When Outs become Ins, then they're wiser than


The World has, without one exception, a Rule,
The rich Man's a wise Man, the poor Man's a Fool;
And foolish he is, faith, since Money's the test,
Who attempts not to get what will get all the rest.
Attend and depend thro' the year, so you may,
And begin, waste and end the next just the same way;
As to promise on promise such schemes I condemn;
Folks will not serve us unless we can serve them.

Let us now serve ourselves, fill our Glasses, fill high, We'll laugh when we're pleas'd, and we'll drink

when we're dry; And we'll drink the King's Health, 'tis the best

Toast of all
Here's our Lord of the Manor in Liberty-Hall.

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RAW the Cork, the Cloth's drawn,-a Toast

to the KING, I presume it is meet, after meat we shou'd sing, For thus prescribes Galen ;-" Life's Health to

prolong, “ Take Dinner's digestive, a Glass, and a Song." To him the Diplomists their judgements resign, So fiat mixturam, 'tis Music and Wine.

Old Homer, who Shakespeare-like, all Nature knew,
Does honour to Beef, and to Beef-eaters too ;
He sings, that the Greeks, by whom Troy Town

was fell’d,
In fighting and eating, all Nations excell'd;
And he, for the Day, who was Hero in Chief,
Had a Double Proportion, or Premium of Beef.

It was Cacus (some say) tho' that's not Orthodox,
'Twas Milo of Crotos first knock'd down an Ox;
He invited all friends to his Beef-eating Wake,
But first, on Turf Altar, he offer'd a Steak.
The Ætherials regal'd on the odour that 'rose,
Says Epicure Fove, such a Club we'll compose.

Then call’d out for Vulcan, the God, limping, came,
And, ogling behind him, attended his Dame;
Each Deity seem'd more inclin’d to her Mess,
Than to dine on the best dish Olympus cou'd dress.
Fove silence proclaims, his curls awfully shakes,
And on Ida establish'd a Club of BEEF STEAKS.

When Juno, that instant, a female peal rung,
In Fove's hand the Bowl shook, the Toast dy'd on

his tongue;
But commanding a Cloud, like a Curtain to fold,
He embrac'd her within it, and silenc'd the Scold.
In practice, ye Husbands, put Jupiter's plan,
And keep your Wives quiet--as well as you can.


« T'other day as I sat in the Sycamore shade."

AN's all. Contradiction, a medley Machine,

Now this Thing, and now he is that ; To-day all in Spirits, to-morrow all Spleen, The next, knows not what to be at.

When in Love,-how he labours the prize to obtain,

If luck'ly, he draws Beauty's Lot, He'll hate what he has, nay, Possession's a Pain,

And he's mad to have what he has not.

When the wind's in the East, sad and sick of his life,

As if under Spell of Queen Mab;
He is always at Home Sir John Brute to his Wife,

Abroad, Jerry Sneak to his Drab.
At the Tavern he'll prove all Religion is Art,

And laughs at Eternity's Doom;
But in Bed, when alone in the Dark, how he'll start,

If a Mouse only moves in the room.
He swears, aye and loudly, that he will be free,

Nay, dye e'er his Country disgrace ;
Confusion to Ministers ! drinks on his knee,

Then, rising, runs off for a Place. Wives, Sisters, or Daughters, wherever he stays,

A prey for Debauch he intends; Proper Gratitude thus for his Welcome he prays,

It is right to be fond of one's Friends.

Shou'd Pique prompi his Spouse to retaliate in kind,

He'll bellow Death, Vengeance, and all; My pistols bring quick!—but, quick changing his

mind On his Proctor, imprimis, he'll call.

When maudlin at night, as 'tis nightly the case,

How loving the Creature appears; While drops from dimn eyes trickle down his

smear'd face, And Hickups keep Time to his Tears.

Foolish friendships he'll proffer, and fulsome repeat,

But the zeal of the night snor'd away,
For his interest, indeed, he to-morrow may meet,

If not, he don't know you next day.

Not the best of us all, not a Man is exempt;

If ourselves we impartially scan;
We are Objects for Pity, or else for Contempt ;

Misconduct is Master of Man.

As against our own wills we are tumbled to Town,

So reluctant again we go out;
In chacing and charging that Will up and down,

We Wisdomites blunder about.

Still blunder we must, as we're born but to die,

And as wise in the Dark as the Light ;
But in Drinking, my Bucks, all Mistakes we defy;

Here's a Bumper to prove ourselves right.

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THEN the early Cock crows at the Day's

dappl’d dawn,
And soaring Lark thro' the air trills,
E’er yet the warm Sun drinks the dews from the lawn,
Or vapours'uncover the hills

While Ploughmen are whistling, as furrows they turn,

And Shepherds releasing their care,
I rise to unkennel, ať sound of the Horn,
Or course, with my Greyhounds, the Hare.

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